Chapter 3 - THE HUNT FOR NATALIE
For seventy-two hours, I didn't sleep.
Moretti Enterprises ran on autopilot while I turned my entire private intelligence network toward a single goal: finding Natalie.
When we divorced four years ago, I had offered her a substantial settlement—five million dollars, the penthouse, and alimony. She had refused every penny. She signed a quick, clean quitclaim deed, packed two battered suitcases of her clothes and art supplies, and walked out of my life without taking a single dollar of Moretti money.
At the time, my pride had been insulted. I thought she was being dramatic. Now, I realized the terrifying truth: she wanted no trace of my toxic wealth anywhere near her soul.
On Friday morning, Marcus walked into my private office at Moretti Tower in downtown Chicago. He set a thin manila folder on my desk.
"We found her, Mr. Moretti," Marcus said.
My heart hammered against my ribs. I reached for the folder with trembling fingers. "Where is she?"
"She’s living in Evanston," Marcus said softly. "About forty minutes north of the city. She bought a small, historic craftsman house three years ago using a modest inheritance from her late grandmother."
I opened the folder. Inside was a recent photograph taken from across the street.
Natalie was standing in a small garden patch outside a cozy wooden house, wearing an oversized sweater, her hair pinned up loosely. She was holding a infant in her arms, laughing as the baby reached for her nose.
Below the photo was a detailed dossier.
Name: Natalie Elizabeth Carter.
Occupation: Freelance Children's Book Illustrator & Art Therapist.
Marital Status: Single.
I stopped. My eyes scanned the text again.
Marital Status: Single.
"Single?" I looked up at Marcus, confused. "What about the man at the restaurant? The one in the charcoal overcoat who was pushing the stroller?"
"That’s Dr. Julian Mercer," Marcus explained. "He’s a chief pediatric surgeon at Northwestern Memorial Hospital. He’s also Natalie’s landlord for her art studio and a close family friend. He’s not her husband, sir. In fact, public records and our surveillance confirm he’s currently engaged to a woman living in Boston. He was simply helping Natalie take the twins out for dinner that evening."
The realization hit me like a wave of cool water. She wasn't married.
"And the babies?" I asked, my breath catching in my throat. "Who is the father?"
Marcus hesitated, looking uncomfortable. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a second document—a birth certificate copy obtained through state health registries.
"The twins were born six months ago at Northwestern Memorial," Marcus said quietly. "A boy named Leo and a girl named Clara. The birth certificates list no father's name."
My mind raced through the timeline. Six months ago. Natalie had given birth in August. But when had she conceived?
Nine months prior to August meant November of the previous year.
"Marcus..." I whispered, my mind spinning into chaos. "Did she undergo IVF? Did she adopt?"
"According to her medical records from the fertility clinic in Evanston," Marcus said, reading from his notes, "Natalie underwent a single round of intrauterine insemination (IUI) using an anonymous donor bank in late October of two years ago. She chose to become a single mother on her own terms."
I sat back in my chair, staring out at the Chicago skyline.
She had wanted a family so badly—had endured years of shame, heartbreak, and emotional isolation beside me—that once she was finally free from my cold presence, she chose to bring children into the world alone, willing to face all the financial and physical hardships of single motherhood rather than give up on her dream.
And I had let her go. I had let the sweetest, most selfless woman walk into the wilderness while I sat in my gold-plated cage with Evelyn Shaw.
"Get the car," I told Marcus, standing up immediately.
"Sir?" Marcus asked. "Are you going there now?"
"I need to see her," I said, my voice cracking with desperation. "I need to look into her eyes and tell her I know the truth."
"Mr. Moretti," Marcus said gently, stepping in front of the door. "With respect... look at yourself. You haven't slept in three days. You’re wearing the same clothes. You look like a man on the brink of a nervous breakdown. If you show up on her doorstep looking like this, demanding answers about her children, you will terrify her."
I stopped, looking at my reflection in the dark glass of the office window. Marcus was right. I looked hollow, unhinged, consumed by madness.
May you like
"What do you suggest?" I asked softly.
"Be smart, sir," Marcus said. "If you want a chance to talk to her—really talk to her—you can't barge into her home like a corporate tyrant. You have to earn the right to stand in front of her again."
